He broke off, muttering a curse, swiping at his own fly.
Ahead, Kungas saw the small party of guides come to a halt at a fork in the trail. The three young Maratha woodcutters conferred with each other quickly. Then one of them trotted back toward the column of Kushan soldiers slogging through the forest.
Watching, Kungas was impressed by the light and easy manner in which the woodcutter moved through the dense growth. The “trail” they had been following was nothing more than a convoluted, serpentine series of relatively-clear patches in the forest. The soil was soggy from weeks of heavy rain. The Kushans, encumbered with armor and gear, had made heavy going of the march.
When the woodcutter reached Kungas, he pointed back up the trail and said, “That is it. Just the other side of that line of trees begins the hill leading to the fortress. You can go either right or left. There are trails.”
He stopped, staring at the strange-looking soldier standing in front of him. It was obvious that the woodcutter was more than a little afraid of Kungas.
Some of that fear was due to Kungas’ appearance. The Maratha fishermen and woodcutters who inhabited the dense forest along the coast were isolated, for the most part, from the rest of India. Kushans, with their topknots and flat, steppe-harsh features, were quite unknown to them.
But most of the young man’s apprehension was due to more rational considerations. The woodcutter had good reason to be wary. Poor people in India—poor people in most lands, for that matter—had long memories of the way soldiers generally treated such folk as they.
The woodcutters had agreed to guide the Kushans to the fortress for two reasons only.
First, money. Lots of money. A small fortune, by their standards.
Second, the magic name of the Empress Shakuntala. Even here, in the remote coastal forest, the word had spread.
Andhra lived, still. Still, the Satavahana dynasty survived.
For the woodcutter, Andhra was a misty, even semi-mythical notion. The Satavahanas, a name of legend rather than real life. Like most of India’s poor, the woodcutter did not consider politics part of his daily existence. Certainly not imperial politics.
Yet—
The new Malwa rulers were beasts. Cruel and rapacious. Everyone knew it.
In truth, the woodcutter himself had no experience with the Malwa. Preoccupied with subjugating the Deccan, the Malwa had not bothered to send forces to the coast, except for seizing the port of Suppara. Isolated by the Western Ghats, the sea-lying forests were of little interest to the Malwa.
But the coast-dwellers were Maratha, and the tales had spread. Tales of Malwa savagery. Tales of Malwa greed and plunder. And, growing ever more legendary with the passing of time, tales of the serene and kindly rule of the Satavahanas.
In actual fact, the woodcutter—for that matter, the oldest great-grandfather of his village—had no personal memory of the methods of Satavahana sovereignity. The Satavahana dynasty had left the poor folk of the coast to their own devices. Which was exactly the way those fishermen and woodcutters liked their rulers. Far off, and absent-minded. Heard of, but never seen.
So, after much hesitation and haggling, the young woodcutters had agreed to guide Kungas and his men to the fortress. They had not inquired as to Kungas’ purpose in seeking that fearsome place.
Their work was done. Now, the woodcutter waited apprehensively. Would he be paid the amount still owing, or—
Kungas was a hard, hard man. Hard as stone, in most ways. But he was in no sense cruel. So he was not even tempted to cheat the woodcutter, or toy with the man’s fears. He simply dipped into his purse and handed over three small coins.
A huge smile lit up the woodcutter’s face. He turned and waved at his two fellows, showing them the money.
Kungas almost smiled himself, then. The other two woodcutters, still waiting twenty yards up the trail, had obviously been ready to bolt into the forest at the first sign of treachery. Now, they trotted eagerly forward.
“And that’s another thing,” grumbled Kujulo. “I miss the trusting atmosphere of the Vile One’s palace.”
The Kushans who were close enough to hear him burst into laughter. Even Kungas grinned.